


Kafes

by Shutka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Developing Relationship, Dubious Consent, Lucifer's Cage, M/M, Non-Consensual, Plotty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:32:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5441858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shutka/pseuds/Shutka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>No one is truly free, Sam. We all spend our existences in one variety of cage or another.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enticements

**Author's Note:**

> In honour of us all winning the fucked-up ship lottery as of last episode, I bring fic. I hope you enjoy it.

Time passes. Time always passed slowly in the cage. This in-between place is no different.

Later, much later, Sam is lying with his head on Lucifer's lap. Lucifer is knitting his ribs closed together, one at a time. He leaves the ones over Sam's heart for last, so it's almost dried up, beating feebly in the stale air by the time Lucifer gets to it. He gathers up Sam's ribcage like the petals of a blooming flower, with care and meticulous patience.

When he's done, Lucifer licks his fingers clean, popping each one in his mouth and sucking, then chasing the drying rivulets of blood down his forearms. All the while he stares at Sam with half-lidded eyes. The clean fingers are still sticky when he runs them through Sam's hair afterwards, but the touch is as light as the whisper of a gentle breeze. If Sam closed his eyes now he could pretend that he was alone, that he was somewhere else, that he was safe, but nothing good comes out of pretending. Not here.

"No one is coming for you," Lucifer pretends to confide. "Your slippery pal Crowley is too busy worrying about his own skin, wondering if I'm about to crack the old joint open and come calling. And between you and me, Sam, I probably could do it. The place is so busted already it would only take a huff, and a puff, and it would all come tumbling down."

He flicks the edge of Sam's ear with his thumb, back and forth, back and forth. The touch is disconcerting, but the rhythm of the words is soothing, even if the meaning is not. Sam knows all this, has already calculated his odds. They're not good.

"Of course then I'd still be short a Sunday suit, and knowing you I'd have to play hide and seek all over Hell to get it. _Much_ rather stay here and catch up."

Lucifer smiles kindly down at Sam, and his fingers still in Sam's hair before he splays them open to cover as much of Sam's skull as possible. It's a possessive gesture and it irritates Sam enough that he gathers the strength to push up to one elbow, roll off of Lucifer's lap, but not out of his reach. Lucifer lets him fall to the grimy, freezing cold floor of the cage. It's not so bad, the cool metal soothing against Sam's burning cheek.

Sam feels almost drunk, both unnaturally calm and dizzy with hopelessness. He wonders if it's something Lucifer is doing, if he projected emotions through touch like he did in Sam's vision, or if it's all Sam's own doing, his mind numbing itself so that he won't go mad now that he's back in this hole. Probably not Lucifer, he decides, Lucifer wouldn't want Sam calm now that the trap's sprung behind him already.

Soon enough Lucifer seems to lose patience with Sam's feeble attempt at escape, frowns and gathers Sam's head back on his knee. He holds Sam in place with firm, gentle fingers. A beat, and then he starts caressing Sam's neck for a change. It feels good in more than one way, and that makes Sam want to get away even more. The drugged feeling ebbs and peters away.

"Getting comfy, Sam? This isn't so bad now, right? There's no reason it has to be."

Sam laughs. It's harsh, bitter, and it echoes off the walls of the prison they share once more.

"There's no possible scenario where I play ball with you and this ends well for me," he says, but even then he's holding onto hope. God might not care about him, but Dean does. Dean will get him out. He'll do it, whatever it takes, and Sam will just have to hold out until then. The certainty is the one fixed point in a world made of shadow and quicksand, of old familiar horror worn out as a favorite pair of boots, and Sam grabs at it with the desperation of a drowning man for the proverbial straw.

"You never know," says Lucifer, leaning closer. The bones on the vessel's face stick out in sharp relief underneath the tense muscle, the expression on Lucifer's face not something meant for human flesh to convey. Not anything this intent, this hungry. "I can be good. I have been good to you, on occasion."

The fingers on Sam's neck dip below the edge of his collar. Sam should have gotten used to this but he never did, Lucifer made sure he never did, and it's always like a kick in the gut. Up on God's Earth Sam forgot - except he's just had a great reminder - that Lucifer is always screwing you, and screwing you the hardest when you're stupid enough to believe he's doing nothing of the sort. Or maybe that's just Sam. Maybe only Sam would put himself back in this position when last time he only got away by sheer dumb luck.

Lucifer bends down and kisses Sam on the corner of his mouth. Sam's body freezes and his mind goes blank, but his lips fall open for no discernible reason. Another upside-down kiss follows, more on target, the tip of Lucifer's tongue touching down right at the swell of Sam's lower lip. Their mouths slot together easily, even though Sam's sure he isn't kissing back. A light suck until Sam's lower lip slides between Lucifer's own, a hint of a bite, and Sam _feels_ it all, a harsh prick of pleasure through his groin and low in his spine that leaves him fidgety and unsatisfied. Lucifer pulls back only enough to lick his lips, savoring the taste of Sam.

Sam comes to life then, surges up, knocking Lucifer out of the way, and stumbles to his feet and into a corner, back to the bars. The walls of the cage sway alarmingly around him, and it's possible he lost too much blood and Lucifer didn't fix that on purpose.

Lucifer hasn't moved, still sitting on the floor with Sam's blood slowly crusting his jeans stiff and congealing on the front of his shirt. He grins; his teeth are red too.

Sam swallows around the lump in his throat. He knows Lucifer sees it when the grin grows a touch wider - Lucifer doesn't miss much. No one else unbalances Sam quite like this, no one else can fill his veins with a cocktail of terror and thrill sure as an adrenaline shot to the heart. There's a century of memories backing up that rush of feeling, and Sam is like Pavlov's dog at the blow of the whistle.

Somehow Sam collects himself, but it's a close thing. He makes himself look Lucifer in the eye when he speaks.

"If I say yes, I stop existing, and I'm responsible for everything you do, everyone you hurt in my body. And I leave my brother alone. Whatever you threaten me with can't be worse than the alternative, and I'm never going to say yes."

"Oh, Sam. Again you misunderstand me." Lucifer rubs the top of his head pensively, messing up his hair, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye. "I don't want you gone. I just need you to scooch over, make some room for me. I did mean everything I said about fighting the Darkness."

"Like I'm going to believe that."

Sam glares at Lucifer, and Lucifer sighs and stands up without hurrying, broadcasting every movement. He makes a show of dusting his jeans clean, of approaching Sam slowly.

"The truth is, you don't stand a chance against Auntie without me. You don't even stand a chance against _me_. I mean, I get that you think big brother will swoop in and save the day any minute now and you'll both ride off into the sunset on the back of an angel, but then what? You pray extra hard to God and all of a sudden he decides to step up to the plate? That's a trifle naive even for you." Lucifer grimaces in mocking disapproval. He's walking as he speaks, circling Sam's little corner like a shark a bloody spot in the water. "If you and your brother let loose the Darkness she must have a hold on one of you, and I don't see you wearing a leash. How's Dean been doing lately, huh? Firing on all cylinders?"

Sam tries not to react, but doubt sets in. Dean said Amara got the drop on him, but what if it's not true. He must be painfully easy to read because now Lucifer looks genuinely disappointed in him. He shakes his head as if Sam's so pitiful that even Lucifer doesn't want to give him a hard time over it.

"We'll see how long that hope lasts, eh, buddy? I have time. Time enough for love, was that it?"

When Lucifer comes close enough, Sam tries to break his neck. He knows it's futile, but he has to do something. Lucifer chokes him against the bars until Sam loses consciousness instead.

He comes to just in time to feel the summoning spell reach its time limit and watch Lucifer grab his wrists. Watch him tow Sam back to the real cage.

* * *

Later again. They are on an actual bunk bed. Sam is on his belly, one leg bent, Lucifer's hand tucked into the hollow behind Sam's knee. Sam can feel the cool edge of the vessel's phantom wedding ring where Lucifer grips him. It's the only thing Lucifer is wearing, the only piece of clothing they have between them.

The mattress smells of old sweat and dust where the threadbare sheet peeled back while Sam struggled and clawed at it. The springs screech every time Lucifer fucks in, like they're about to give out any minute now. Lucifer feels completely human too, a rare occurrence, but then again this is their first time in a while and Lucifer is, in his own weird, sadistic way, a romantic. Or maybe that's just to screw with Sam's head like so much else Lucifer does. Sam can never tell the difference, not for sure.

The skin on Lucifer's chest sticks to Sam's back, their sweat mingling, everything feeling just shy of real. Sam's body stretching taut as Lucifer fills him in long, smooth, measured thrusts. Lucifer's nails biting into his hip, ragged and chewed. The weight that casually presses on Sam, making him take it. The way the rim of Sam's hole pulls obscenely on Lucifer's cock on every outstroke. The squelching noises, Lucifer's satisfied grunts, the way Sam's dick hangs heavy between his legs, blood loss be damned, it's all real. It's like being cracked open in a pool of bright light, a display of deliberate degradation that can't be escaped or blanked out, that Sam has no choice but be accomplice to. And Sam. Sam can't stand it, or Lucifer, or himself, and it's happening, except not really, everything limned with a subtle haze of wrongness, of dreamy indistinction, like it doesn't even matter, like nothing in the real world will ever bear any mark of this, like it's no more than a ripple in Sam's head, insignificant to everyone but him and Lucifer, who takes _pleasure_ in this.

"Come on, Sam," Lucifer mouths against Sam's shoulder, impatient, as if they're playing tag and Sam's too slow, needs to catch-up. Lucifer's hips are angled just right, and now he's fucking Sam with a maddening, irregular rhythm. A dozen or so hard, fast thrusts, then a couple of twisting rolls of his hips, then Lucifer fucks his way in to the balls in choppy pushes and just stays there, groaning theatrically in Sam's ear and shifting his hips as if just feeling Sam gripping him is enough, before suddenly trying to get even deeper, making Sam slide up the sheets on his belly with every abortive nudge.

Sam closes his eyes, but he can't turn off his other senses, can't ignore the rough invasion of Lucifer inside him, his smell - clean, human, appealing, the sounds he makes that could be genuine or calculated or anything in between, and Sam can never decide which would be worse.

Tension builds inexorably. Sam teeters on the edge of coming, never quite tipping over for long, sweet minutes. He doesn't want to come, doesn't want to give Lucifer the satisfaction. It'll just be back to the rack afterwards anyway.

Then Lucifer laughs throatily against his back.

"Suppose Dean came to your rescue. Right. This. Minute," Lucifer leers, punctuating each word with a jab of his dick. "That'd be something."

Sam tries, but it's not enough to keep the noise in his throat down, a quiet, distraught animal noise. Lucifer hums his approval over the back of Sam's neck.

"Want me to finish you off? Just in case Dean pops over," he asks, conversationally. Sam knows he would do it too, if Sam asked. Sam wouldn't even need to beg. It would be so simple, and at the same time such a defeat, because Sam shouldn't be involved in this. This is something Lucifer is doing to him, Sam doesn't have a choice here. He can't have any choice. 

If only he didn't need this over so bad.

Sam gives an almost imperceptible nod. There's an excruciating pause when nothing changes and Sam thinks Lucifer might make him ask out loud, but then Lucifer sighs and lifts off of Sam's back. He moves in a single fluid shift that ends with one of Lucifer's hands between Sam's shoulder blades, flattening him to the bed, and the other keeping Sam's hips upturned while Lucifer grinds him into the mattress. That's all it takes, a change of angle, a sudden restraint, and Sam blows his load helplessly on top of the dirty sheets. He twitches and shakes in Lucifer's grip and Lucifer fucks him through it.

The payout is a few brief, blissful moments while Sam rides out the aftershocks and doesn't think about anything at all.

Then awareness returns, and with it the old, familiar spiral of self-loathing. 

Lucifer doesn't slow down. The mess of Sam's own come against his belly almost makes him gag. Sam always tightens up after he comes and getting fucked now only feels uncomfortable. It's another thing about his own body he wouldn't have found out without Lucifer, that he never would have wanted to know, like the fact he comes hardest while getting fucked, no courtesy reach around necessary, that stubble burn makes his skin crazy sensitive and that come stings like a bitch when it gets in the eyes.

Lucifer keeps up the hard, selfish rhythm, pounding away like Sam is only a hole to him now. The discomfort turns to pain and Sam winces at it, glad that Lucifer can't see his face. He bites his own lip hard enough to draw blood and it helps. The cage seems impossibly bright now. Sam’s blood drips off his torn lip, staining the mattress. He starts counting in his head. Once he gets to a hundred Lucifer will have come and it'll be over for now.

Once he gets to two hundred, anyway.

He's up to 436 when a grating buzz rises in the air. The cage really is brighter now, and Lucifer groans impatiently behind Sam, murmurs a _now, really_ and then abruptly his grip tightens beyond endurance and for an instant he weighs impossibly heavy on top of Sam. He buries the full length of his cock in Sam's body and shoots there, long and hard. He doesn't make a noise, and neither does Sam.

When it's over, Lucifer relaxes once more into a semblance of humanity. He licks a slow, filthy trail up Sam's spine, his tongue wriggling like a wet slug, and follows it up with dirty praise into Sam's ear, before pulling out and turning Sam over on his back. Sam shifts in discomfort. 

For all that he wanted this over quickly he's reeling. It's hard to look at Lucifer now, not just because he just finished humiliating Sam in a way no one else had ever done before or after him, but also because Lucifer looks so affected by this. Without clothes his stolen body looks leaner and more dangerous, but now it's also mellowed out, some of the tension gone out of Lucifer's frame. Not all of it, Lucifer still hasn't wrung out what he truly wants out of Sam, but enough.

Sam presses his lips together and resolutely doesn't think about the fact that he just gave the Devil a happy ending. Judging by his knowing smirk Lucifer isn't nearly as averse to the topic.

"I know, I would love to stay and cuddle if we didn't have company," he rolls his eyes and pulls a face, but the smirk isn't going anywhere and oh, fuck, fuck.

Sam's brain feels like it's about to short-circuit at the thought that Dean really is coming and the whirlwind of hope, shame and panic it drags after itself. Except before he can really work himself up Lucifer squeezes his shoulder to get his attention, and his face makes it perfectly clear Dean isn't coming. Lucifer gives Sam's chest a consoling pat, and gets up, naked and unashamed.

"Wrong brother," he says, and nudges Sam into turning on his side. "Now keep your eyes closed. I'll get rid of Michael and be back before you have time to miss me."

* * *

Sam doesn't open his eyes, even puts his elbows over them for good measure and keeps his palms pressed to his ears. Michael and Lucifer are chatty today. Sam's eyelids start hurting with the effort of squeezing them shut and the muscles in his arms are starting to feel uncomfortably strained, but these are welcome distractions.

He never got used to the torture and... the other stuff, but after so much practice he learned to compartmentalize well enough. Old habits die hard, and he manages to put what just happened aside, contained and unexamined. Later it will burst through in nightmares and brief flashes or recollection when he least expects it, in phantom pains and new and exciting types of psychological dysfunction, and in messier, confusing ways Sam doesn't even want to think about, but right now it's fine. He's fine.

He forces himself to take deep, calming breaths and ignore the screech of angels talking. This, he's not so used to. Michael mostly kept his distance the last time Sam was here, and on the rare occasions he turned up Lucifer would leave Sam alone to talk to him. Michael didn't like to get dressed for company, as Lucifer put it, and for some reason Lucifer didn't want to risk Sam getting a glimpse of Michael's true image. This means that Lucifer doesn’t want to leave him alone now, and that’s a good sign. No matter what he says he must be worried someone might bust Sam out while he's distracted. It's not a lot, but it's good news, especially since holding out and hoping something changes is still Sam’s only plan.

The racket stops as abruptly as it started, and the light dims until it doesn't feel like Sam's staring straight into the sun even with his eyes closed. At his back footsteps begin clanging against the floor, and Sam figures this is his cue to get up. He shoots upright too fast, not wanting to be lying down when Lucifer reaches him. It turns out not to be such a hot idea. Black spots dance in Sam's vision and the cage walls seem to slowly rotate around him. He thinks he starts listing to the side before he grabs the bed frame above to steady himself, but he's not sure.

Lucifer sits behind him on the bed, so carefully he hardly even jostles the mattress.

"Sorry about that," he apologizes, sounds like he means it. "No respect for privacy, my brother. And after I hung a metaphorical sock on the doorknob."

He puts his hand on Sam's back to rub the tense muscles there and a shiver of disgust lights up Sam's nerves at the touch. If he weren't pretty sure he'd fall on his face he would lurch away.

"What did Michael want?" Sam asks, because it might be important.

"Nothing much, just to hear the gossip."

"Did you tell him about the Darkness?"

It's strange, that Sam all but forgot Michael is also in Hell. It occurs to him that he never stopped to wonder why God would send him to talk to Lucifer when Michael was right there, just as old and powerful and likely less hostile. He's been such an idiot handling this he can't believe it. Dean would be completely in his right to throw all the I-told-you-sos he feels like in Sam's face once all of this is over.

Sam can't afford to entertain the possibility it won't be over.

He's so wrapped up in his own thoughts he nearly jumps when Lucifer answers his question.

"Yup. I also told him Pops sent you to me. He's sulking right now."

Lucifer flops on his back at the foot of the bunk with his arms folded behind his head. Sam doesn't look at him straight on, doesn't want to yet. His peripheral vision is enough to tell Lucifer is radiating smugness. He's also clothed again.

And here Sam is, sitting naked with Lucifer's come leaking out of his ass, gathering his strength to go pick up his clothes without passing out. _This is your life, Sam Winchester._

"Hey, Sam?"

"What?"

"You haven't undergone a sudden change of heart about letting me in, by any chance?"

"Not just yet."

Sam spies his undershirt hanging from a meat hook close enough that he figures he can make it. He hauls himself upright and the world around him tilts only a little. So far so good.

"That's a shame," Lucifer remarks, and wriggles on the bed to make himself more comfortable. "I might have to hurt you again."

Sam looks down at him then, and he neither can nor wants to stop the sneer pulling back his lips and baring his teeth.

"You do what you _have_ to do."

For once the face looking back at him isn't smug, wrathful, gleeful, not greedy or calculating. It isn't anything other than lit up by a horrible, rapt attention focused solely on Sam.


	2. Long Hard Road Out Of Hell

It's been days now, difficult to say how many. Time is measured by cycles of torture and brief breaks for healing and persuasion that are a struggle in themselves. Lucifer worries at Sam constantly, looking for a weak spot, for a way to get his foot in the door. So far he hasn't found one.

Sam expects Dean knows what happened to him by now. He hopes Dean isn't too worried. It would be nice if he could send some sort of message, something like _I'm holding up all right, please don't do anything hasty_. It's not true, but Sam hasn't said yes yet and isn't about to anytime soon, and that's what's important.

"Do you know," Lucifer mentions, nimble fingers buried in the gory mess that is Sam's arm, "the human nervous system is a real obstacle to prolonged torture. Too intense, too much drawn-out pain, and your nerves are apt to go haywire. Full on bats in the belfry nuts. Your brain thinks you're feeling cold, or tingly, and doesn't realize that in reality someone is strumming a banjo tune on your raw, exposed nerves. It's a pain, let me tell you."

Sam wishes he could come up with a witty comeback, or barring that any comeback, but all he can do is barely keep from biting through his own tongue.

"You remember what it was like when I had just your soul in here? How much more fun that was? Now you know why. Oops, it came off." Lucifer gives Sam an insincerely apologetic look, throws whatever piece of Sam he just broke off over his shoulder and sprawls out half on top of him. His chin digs sharply into Sam's chest, and Sam tries to concentrate on that instead of the mess his arm is, half screaming agony and half absence of any feeling. "As pleased as I am that I got to know you inside out again, Sam, we're running behind schedule here. Be a sweetheart and say yes already."

Sam shakes his head no. Then keeps shaking. It doesn't stop until Lucifer shuffles up his body and grabs Sam's jaw in one hand. His eyes rake over Sam's features, cold, clinical. It's different than Sam's memories from the cage, when behind Lucifer's control Sam could always sense the blazing, shocked fury in the wake of a defeat he never could have foreseen. This Lucifer isn't angry, he's purposeful. He's _creative_. Sam's just about clinging to sanity by the skin of his teeth.

Lucifer looks like he's about to say something else. Then he cocks his head and freezes stock still.

Suddenly, he lets go of Sam, practically dropping Sam's head on the grate metal. Without a word he pulls back and starts healing Sam's arm. A wave of relief hits Sam, so strong that it almost feels like a physical sensation. He'd expected Lucifer to be hours more at it, days, and this unexpected respite is a break in routine as welcome as it is interesting. Sam needs to know what's so important for Lucifer to cut his amusement short.

"What's-" he starts, but Lucifer's already finished up with Sam's arm and is rising to his feet, pulling Sam along. Sam's been bleeding through the cracks in the floor for so long his body comes unstuck from its own gore with a sickening sucking sound. He expects a comment, a whispered 'gross, ain't it?' or a malicious reassurance that Lucifer still finds him attractive, but Lucifer doesn't even look at Sam. It makes Sam even more curious. "What's happening?"

Not deigning to reply beyond a warning look sent Sam's way, Lucifer ducks underneath Sam's newly healed arm and lugs him along. The arm flops uselessly about when Sam tries to tug on Lucifer's collar with it, like it's been asleep for too long.

Getting dropped on a mattress that wasn't there a second ago doesn't surprise Sam. Lucifer might be imprisoned here but he can still mold the inside of the cage to his liking. Sam wonders, not for the first time, whether it's God's effort to make Lucifer comfortable, to ease his captivity as much as possible, or just an unforeseen side effect of how powerful Lucifer is even here. The mattress is covered in burlap, lumpy and uneven, but lying on top of it feels like resting on a meadow full of thick grass. It even smells like it's filled with fragrant herbs.

With a jolt of surprise, Sam realizes he feels sleepy. He should be keyed up, eager to question Lucifer's change of plans, and besides Lucifer hasn't let him feel truly tired the whole time he's been here. Sam tries to sit up, and Lucifer pushes him back down. Not hard, but with a finality that fans Sam's suspicions.

"What are you up to?" Sam asks, blinking away exhaustion.

Lucifer shrugs, and sits on his heels next to Sam's new bed, making no move to climb on after him. He reaches out and strokes Sam's cheek with the backs of his fingers. His face is utterly unreadable, and it irritates Sam that he doesn't know if it's because Lucifer isn't bothering to broadcast false feelings for once, of if this is the only mask he's able to conjure up at this moment. Sam opens his mouth to say something about it and falls asleep before deciding exactly what.

He dreams he is plunged into ice-cold water, so suddenly it pushes all air out of his lungs. Sam panics, flounders, but in the dream he doesn't need to breathe. Soon enough he calms down. The water settles around him and he sinks like a stone. Even though it's very deep, it's also light and clear, and Sam can see all around him. The cold turns his skin numb and makes his teeth hurt but somehow Sam doesn't mind it.

But then he sinks even deeper, and suddenly the water's not as clean anymore. He reaches the bottom and sinks into ankle-deep silt. Around him the knotted, gnawed-on roots of water lilies slip and sway. He looks up and sees only distant, murky light. He keeps sinking, up to his calves, his knees. Soon enough he starts to panic - he doesn't want to be buried here alive. He tries to pull himself up towards the light, but the silt clings. Sam opens his mouth to scream and the water rushes in, and even though he still isn't drowning for some reason it's very important not to let the water get inside him.

He flails and tries to break free, and wakes up with a gasp, still in the cage, limbs spread every which way on a mattress Lucifer probably conjured up from his memories before he was locked up, thousands of years ago.

"Must have been some nightmare. Was it about me?" Lucifer asks, somewhere to the side. Sam's head snaps towards the sound of his voice, and he's rewarded by Lucifer's unimpressed look. Lucifer's in the exact same spot he was when Sam closed his eyes, except he looks much more relaxed now. Whatever happened must have gone his way.

"You wish," Sam throws back, irritated, and Lucifer just nods and answers "I do" all serious before an infectious, teasing smile spreads across his face. Sam can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Even his hind brain knows that a happy Lucifer is never good news. Besides, there's no way he'd be able to get anything out of him now.

Sam's about to try anyway when the first maggots burst out of his pillow and spray all over his face and neck.

* * *

There's not much room in the hammock. Sam's bigger, but still he's the one who ends up huddled against Lucifer, his head pillowed on Lucifer's shoulder and legs awkwardly forked around Lucifer's. Lucifer doesn't even gloat. He doesn't have to, both of them fully aware there was no way they could have ended up in a different arrangement.

Overhead the ropes disappear into the darkness that always wreathes the roof of the cage, below there's so much nothing Sam's breath would be coming short in the real world. It's not a comforting position either way.

At least like this Sam can't look down at the writhing, corpse-pale sea of worms underneath. The last time he checked some of them were the size of Sam's forearm, bloated, blind things that tore at and devoured each other in the absence of any other prey.

Lucifer has one arm looped around Sam's neck, ready to catch him if Sam were to tip over, and is happily chewing onto the nails of the other with a far-away expression on his face.

The cage used to get like this sometimes, horrors from the rest of Hell spilling over like the tide over a sand castle. Lucifer either couldn't control these outbursts, or he didn't wish to bother. He'd let them have Sam a few times, hooks and acid and thick endless mists that made Sam doubt anything else even existed, that made him glad to see even Lucifer after a while. It was nasty but oddly impersonal, never anything that showed any planning or sentience.

"This is taking longer than usual," Sam says, when he can't stand the silence anymore. This is another old habit, talking to Lucifer like it's nothing, like Lucifer hasn't been causing him unspeakable pain and isn't about to add more to it shortly, because there's no one else around and Sam needs to talk to somebody to stay sane.

Lucifer peels off a hangnail and spits it with gusto over the side of the hammock. The creatures below go wild, issuing out loud and piercing cries of longing. A scuffle appears to break out over the tasty morsel.

"Is this because the cage is damaged? You sending your feelers out, Hell leaking in?" Sam presses on. If it's really so easy to move in and out perhaps he could slip out on his own instead of waiting for rescue. After all, he's not the one the cage was created to contain.

Lucifer looks down at him with glittering, flat eyes. His lips are wet with saliva and his fingertips tap pink and painful-looking over them, bitten to the quick.

"Can we not talk shop for a little while, Sam?" he asks, out of the blue. His head falls back like he's exhausted, or annoyed. The movement flattens out the hammock and makes Sam lurch dangerously close to tipping over. Lucifer quickly gathers him back to his chest, so close that Sam goes rigid, breath stuttering. Lucifer sighs like Sam's reaction pains him, and says, right into Sam's temple, "I promise I won't do anything you don't wish me to, so let's call it a truce for now."

And just like that Sam is so full of rage he can't think straight, can't think at all. There's a black haze pulsing in his vision with the ever quickening thrum of his heartbeat, and through it he can barely see Lucifer's face becoming drawn and worried. He can't throw a punch in these close quarters but he uses elbows, knees, tries to put Lucifer in a headlock. The only one he's hurting is himself but he can't stop. He bites at Lucifer's neck so hard he can feel his teeth shattering against Lucifer's flesh, not leaving a mark.

Lucifer pins Sam's wrists to the small of his back and waits for the rage to subside. Only it doesn't, because this isn't like the other times, when Sam hoped, maybe, maybe if he fought hard enough, before it dawned on him how futile it was, how Lucifer got off on it, _how whatever Sam did was only making it better for Lucifer_. No, this rage isn't Sam fighting like a mindless animal.

This is about this smug, lying bastard, who treated Sam like a toy and nearly broke him like one, who whispered soft-voiced in his ear, his dreams, his _head_ until Sam couldn't tell lies from truth except it didn't matter because they were both tearing him apart, who gave him nightmares and wet dreams and hallucinations that wormed their way into his good graces by looking _proud of him_ , by keeping him company when he was worried and alone. This is about Lucifer working another angle - or not, maybe not, and that would be even worse or maybe not and Sam can't tell. Lucifer, looking down at Sam, supporting the back of Sam's neck in the crook of his elbow, Lucifer suggesting a truce with the most weaselly wording possible and looking pained, like Sam is the one being difficult here.

There's no way to witness all that and not react with rage, and still be human.

"Let go of me," Sam says as best he can through his ruined mouth, and it sounds so calm that even Lucifer must buy it because he does just that, before pulling back to look at Sam.

Sam kicks off of Lucifer's stone-hard body and goes over the edge.

It feels nothing like flying, it's not weightlessness and there's nothing graceful about it. Sam just drops like a sack, but as nasty as that prospect is it beats hands down staying near Lucifer a moment longer.

He hits the sea of gelatinous bodies with a wet smack, and has enough time to marvel that back on Earth he would have died instantly from the impact, before they start moving against him. The ones he fell on are the first to reach him, sliding over his clothes with bodies half crushed to pulp and still trying to get at his bare skin. He can feel slime, and then open mouths, not biting into him yet, just getting a feel. Sam thrashes, trying to get away from them, but there's nothing but hungry globs of flesh around him, underneath, even above when he starts to sink into the mass. One of them bites him on the hand. Its teeth are tiny, shockingly sharp, and somehow unclean. Sam doesn't want this filth on him, in him, but it's too late.

He would scream but his throat's locked with shock. He closes his eyes.

There's a whoosh of air, a hand pressing on his closed eyelids, once, hard, in warning, and then he feels the maggots around and on him his burning away in agony, disintegrating into nothing and leaving Sam clean, untouched. He sinks deeper down but meets no resistance, no pain, just the barbed chill of a windless winter's day. That's when he realizes what's happening, where he is. Lucifer is enveloping him, cushioning him from Hell's filth, the waves of it melting away from the mere contact with the purest breed of angel there is.

They float down to the bottom of the cage together.

* * *

A thick film of sludge slowly seeping through the holes in the floor is the only thing left. It's already staining the edges of Sam's jeans. Sam hopes Lucifer would vanish it away like he does with the stains from Sam's blood every once in a while. He'll have to find Lucifer first. Sam came to alone, whole again, feeling rested. The rage is gone, and so is the desire to get back at Lucifer no matter the cost. Sam feels hollowed out, like he spent his last bit of fuel on his rage and can't muster any more to keep the fire going. He just wants out of here, one way or another.

This, finally, makes him feel a twinge of apprehension. He should only ever contemplate getting out of here the one way.

From Lucifer he expects fury. Maybe even offence that Sam dared throw back his generous offer in his face. Sam expects him to walk out of the shadows with the vessel's features impossibly sharpened and his eyes glowing red.

Except Lucifer doesn't make his presence known at all. Sam wanders around aimlessly, pressing on despite his exhaustion. Lucifer peeled off the jacket and shirt off him to work on his arms what feels like ages ago, and he's freezing in his worn t-shirt. The cage seems darker, shapes looming out of the darkness but disappearing once he gets close. Sometimes he can make them out, an electric chair, a severed horse head nailed above a fence gate, and that makes him glad he's never gotten a good look at any of them.

He's not worried, or should that be elated, that Lucifer might have gotten hurt shielding Sam from the hell-maggots. Still, when he finally catches sight of him Sam picks up the pace.

Lucifer is standing in a little pool of light and creation. A patch of grass the size of a table cloth, a drying line hanging up in the air, and Lucifer in dark blue boxer briefs and grey socks shaking out and hanging up his slimy clothes, and yeah, Sam's missing ones too.

When he sees Sam he spits a clothes-pin out of his mouth and calls out, "Hey, Sam! Pull up a nothing and sit tight a minute, will you." He wriggles his fingers at his sad soggy jeans. "I'd dry these the angel way, but that would mean touching them as me, and I've had enough of that for forever. Yuck," he shudders with exaggerated revulsion. 

Sam draws closer, because there is nowhere else to go.

Lucifer gives him a couple of quick, assessing looks while haphazardly throwing the rest of their clothes over the rope, then speaks, casual as you please.

"Help me out here, buddy. I tried the carrot, I tried the stick, this is the part where you're at least supposed to ask for an ice-cream. Not dive head-first into a mass of mindless hell-monsters."

He opens his arms wide, an illusion of helplessness and commiseration. _I just want to help you,_ it says. Lucifer only wants to help himself. Sam crosses his own arms over his chest.

"I don't remember any carrots."

"That would be me offering to clean up your mess for you."

"At the low cost of my life."

"No one ever wants to pay the asking price. Which is why I left some room for negotiation, Sam. Work with me here. Haggle."

Lucifer approaches him, slowly, hands hanging by his sides. He stops a foot from Sam, not making an attempt to touch him. He peers up into Sam's face with earnestness so perfect it has to be faked.

"Make it easy for you, you mean," Sam raises his chin, challenging. He's still scared, and worse than that he feels warmer now when Lucifer's closer, and he misses the hollow detachment from before. But still he's not going to let any of that crap stop him from landing a hit. "You admitted it yourself, nothing you're doing is working."

A thin smile, the glint of teeth like an unsheathed razor. "That is true. And I'll thank you to keep it to yourself, seeing as I have a reputation to maintain. Imagine that, the Devil not knowing his trade," Lucifer chuckles softly at his own words, and the warm, rough sound of it drops like a stone in the pit of Sam's belly. "I got mine, Sam, I won't be left wanting. Because you see, it's a win-win for me. You say yes, I get you, I get out of here. You don't say yes, I still get you, and prison is a little less boring for me. You know how easily I get bored."

Sam looks away. He half expects Lucifer to grab him, make him look back, but he doesn't. He maintains that distance, not respectful, not threatening. Just close. Intimate. Making Sam think useless thoughts, about how strange it is to have Lucifer near naked when Sam is still clothed himself. It adds to an illusion of vulnerability, honesty, respect. Probably that's why Lucifer did it, and Sam knows it, and it's working anyway. If only a little, but a little is too much.

"Eventually the Darkness comes knocking, after she's done with Earth and Heaven I wager, and if you're lucky she'll kill me first and you'll get to watch. So everybody wins, in a way."

That makes Sam take notice again. Lucifer is still smiling mildly, looking like he doesn't have a care in the world.

"A minute ago you were boasting you could defeat her, and that's why I should say yes to you. Now you're saying you can't defeat her on your own turf, and I should say yes to you. Do I get the gist of your argument or would you like to add something?" It's a mistake to ask anything of Lucifer, even clarification, but Sam feels restless again. He has enough sense to recognize that's a bad way to be, even if he can't stop himself.

"Pay attention," Lucifer hisses out. "She's God's counterpart. I'm his creation, and he was never in the habit of making equals. I can defeat her with time and preparation. I can't just go ten rounds with her and walk away."

Sam turns away from Lucifer then doubles right back around, resisting the urge to run his hands through his own hair.

"None of this changes the fact that I can't trust you to keep your end of the bargain once you have what you want."

Lucifer rubs his mouth, for all the world looking like he's deep in thought. He keeps staring at Sam like he wants to crack his head open and crawl inside.

"Then put a time limit to your consent," Lucifer offers eventually.

Sam's first reaction is a healthy avalanche of mistrust. He scrutinizes Lucifer through narrowed eyes. Unsurprisingly, it fails to faze him.

"You can't do that."

"Says who?"

Lucifer's eyebrows are raised like he's inviting Sam to do a mischief together. He takes a step closer, not at all threatening.

"You pick a time, say, two weeks, and after that I'm to vacate the premises. This gives me the chance to find myself a new pair of dancing slippers, and we all go on our merry ways," Lucifer says, in a voice gone low and silky without Sam noticing.

"I don't trust you," Sam repeats. It's the one thing he can be sure of now, and he has to cling to it like flotsam in a storm, lest he be lost.

"Then don't say yes. But think about it," Lucifer coaxes. He fixes his stance, angles so he's speaking to Sam from the side instead of head on. "I have tricks, I know secrets. I got so many aces up my sleeve you wouldn't believe. You want me in your corner."

Lucifer is only ever in his own corner, and they both know it, but Lucifer has a ready answer even before Sam's voiced the objection.

"I get that you can't let yourself believe me, I get that. But I'm going to prove my sincerity to you, if you give me the chance."

Sam can't pull away, doesn't dare look up. The only thing he sees of Lucifer is a comically loose sock, the elastic band of his underwear riding low over the cut of his hip. As he watches Lucifer reaches down to fix it, but in the end hitches it only a fraction of an inch higher. Sam's mouth is suddenly too dry, and he can't for the life of him understand why.

"How do I know you'd even help me? Last I checked you were raring to destroy the world. Maybe you and the Darkness will become best buddies," he throws out, shooting accusations blind.

Lucifer huffs out a breath of amused disbelief. It scorches over Sam's collarbone like a brand, the flimsy barrier of his shirt no protection at all.

"I'm a being of pure light," Lucifer answers him, and he sounds so fond Sam aches down to his marrow. "Just think about it. Imagine, not having to do this alone. And you would be alone, Sam, because at best Dean is going to sit this one out."

This gets Sam's chin to jerk up. Lucifer nods at him, like he'd thought it might.

"That's right. It's not enough to open the door. Someone had to show the Darkness the way out. One she recognized, someone she could take for her own. Dean looks to be the lucky winner. Now she's latched onto him and she won't let go, because it's not in her nature to do that. He won't go against her no matter what he says. Not even for you."

Sam can feel his face twist, his mouth working back and forth but no sound coming out of it. Lucifer must be wrong, or lying again, or saying just enough truth to confuse Sam. He's sick of them never catching a break. He wants to be alone, he doesn't want to listen anymore.

It's not to be. Lucifer's still at it, like a dog with a bone that won't rest easy until it gets the very last bit of gristle.

"Two weeks, and my solemn promise that you and Dean get to walk away after this, alive and kicking."

That voice gets in Sam’s head like an infection, and God, Sam wants it to be true. He wants to believe he could just sic these two monsters on each other and watch them destroy each other while he and Dean get away unscathed for once. He wants to leave this forsaken place without having to sign away his life, without Dean having to tear himself to pieces yet again to keep him safe. He wants so much more, things so muddled and painful he couldn't even articulate them to himself.

The want surges up in him, lodges itself in his throat like a physical lump, chokes him with its immediacy. He wants to say yes.

Lucifer sighs at his side, his lips brushing Sam's jaw, and Sam doesn't even think about pushing him away.

"Thank you, Sam," he says, sweetly, and Sam's eyes shoot open.

It's not a smile that flickers over Lucifer’s face, not the shit-eating grin of a car salesman after the latest junker's been signed off, but the subtle, intricate expression shows the awful truth all the same.

Then it's not just Sam looking out his eyes, it's both of them, gazing on the formless weaving fog of the empty cage, and through the slowly rising abject terror and beside the jagged edges of Lucifer sharing his body Sam can only think one desperate thought; he didn't say yes. He didn't say yes, and this can't be happening.

"What's the formality of one little word when you wanted me in so bad," Lucifer says, thinks, back at him, and through the spiralling realization of how much he's fucked up Sam can make out another message, and it's not comforting at all.

"Don't worry, Sam, the Devil looks after his own."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update should be up next weekend.


	3. Sleepy Head

Lucifer puts him to sleep. No ceremony, no waste of breath, just a swift yank that rips Sam away from his senses, buries him deep into his own mind.

In Sam's experience, possession by anyone but Lucifer is much like general anesthesia. No feeling of the passage of time, no glimmer of consciousness, just a big blank. So unlike this, now, which feels like shallow sleep.

Distantly, Sam is aware of the pulse of Lucifer's presence, busy somewhere far away, occasionally brushing up against Sam to make sure he's still where Lucifer left him. Once there's a spike of outrage so potent and distressing it almost rouses Sam up, but then it peters out, or maybe moves further away, and Sam is lost once more. And always above it all, growing stronger, then retreating, the alertness to his own body too full, like an overstuffed ragdoll about to split at the seams. Lucifer fills every cell beyond saturation until it feels like Sam is absolutely soaking with him, body overtaken and crackling with energy.

A thought almost crystallizes in his mind, that he needs to get up and do something about it. Almost.

He opens his eyes to bright light and sanitized whiteness in a cramped space. An airplane bathroom. The glare is too sudden and the pressure is near unbearable now, much worse than it was in Detroit. There's the strangest sensation of being boxed into a corner of his own mind, barely any space to think.

Then Lucifer looks into the mirror, into their shared face, and shock or not Sam knows he has no choice but to up his game. It's likely going to be one curve ball after another from now on, and Sam can't even begin to imagine what Lucifer will get up to in his body, God, how Dean will react when he realizes what happened. He can't put his brother through the ordeal of looking at Sam's face and realizing that it's not Sam in there, that Sam has abandoned him, let him down, _again_. The thought spurns Sam into frenzy. The sheer determination to snatch back what is his takes him over.

"Get out of me," he thinks at the thing that's stolen his body and is surprised to discover he says it out loud. It's not a victory, Lucifer's letting him do it, and Sam continues through clenched teeth. "Get the fuck out of me. I don't want this, I gave you no permission. You have no right to call yourself an angel after what you did. You're nothing more than a demon, you hear me?"

It has no effect on Lucifer whatsoever.

"My, my, why the switcheroo?" Lucifer asks, all but pouting. "You want me, you don't want me, rinse and repeat. I'd be feeling mighty unappreciated if I hadn't just taken a good rummage in your lunch box." He taps Sam's temple and his jaw, _Sam’s jaw_ , juts up and to the side in a stunning display of gleeful arrogance. "Turns out you did miss me, partner."

He sounds pleased but unsurprised, like whatever he thinks he found is just Sam meeting expectations. Sam feels the urge to smash something, because it isn't true, he's missed nothing about Lucifer, he couldn't have.

Lucifer's not finished.

"All that crap you sold Uncle Grandpa - and yourself - about best case scenarios and having all your crazy under one umbrella was just that." He leans forward and plants his hands on both sides of the bathroom mirror, face so close to the surface the image almost clouds with his breath. "Admit it, Sam, you wanted to see me again. You wanted to hear me crack jokes and be angry on your behalf, you wanted me to help you. I was the hero you conjured up to keep your memories of Hell at bay. I'm flattered, I really am. And it was a smart move, considering."

There's something there, trying to catch Sam's attention, slipping through his fingers at the looming realization that Lucifer's been digging into Sam's mind. It's par for the course, a package deal with having either a demon or an angel inside you, as Sam should know only too well. This shouldn't feel different, surprising, but it is. Sam doesn't give a rat's ass about Meg and he didn't even know Gadreel. The chance of them unearthing his thoughts was his least concern.

With Lucifer it's much more dangerous, personal. Lucifer will ferret out exactly what he needs to manipulate Sam, or failing that hurt him, and Sam can't afford to give him that kind of ammunition. Only Sam doesn't have a choice, and that's the whole problem.

"Listen to me, you lying son of a bitch-" he starts.

"That stings, Sam, you insulting my non-existent mother. How would you feel if I implied your great aunt Maude did the donkey show back in the 30s in Vegas? Do unto others, hmm?"

Sam is not in the mood to let himself be distracted.

"You can't keep me down forever. Sooner or later I'm going to break free, and when I do you'll wish you stayed in Hell."

That prompts a put-upon sigh from Lucifer.

"This is all pointless," he says, sounding maddeningly reasonable. "I wasn't just beating my gums, I do intend to hop off the Winchester express at the earliest convenience."

"That _is_ convenient," Sam spits out, bristling with suspicion.

It's unnatural, seeing the expressions flitting over his own face while he and Lucifer toss the ball back and forth. The twisted lines of his own fury iron out into Lucifer's plastic-smooth calm. His eyes seem to burn through the mirror, trying to reach Sam. For all that Lucifer's insisted Sam's body is perfect for him, all his mannerisms look off. Lucifer doesn't seem to notice it, still playing at concerned.

"You'll only do yourself damage, and I don't have time to waste patching you up."

"Then maybe you should get the hell out of me."

"That's what I'm trying to do," he tells Sam, and pushes away from their reflection. "In the meantime, don't look for trouble, Sam. You might just find it."

* * *

Sam dreams, and remembers, but somehow his memories aren't what it's really about.

Riding on his father's shoulders, so so high. It's dizzying. Sam's dad is the tallest, strongest, most amazing father ever. Sam holds onto Dad's ears and feels invincible, and overflowing with love.

Running hand in hand with Dean down a rocky bank, Dean trying to accommodate Sam's smaller, growing frame. A rush of gratitude and adoration for his big brother.

 _Such a beautiful child_. Everybody says Sam's adorable. Joggers with dogs, pediatricians, high-school girls wearing sneakers with neon-bright shoelaces. His dad doesn't agree out loud but Sam knows he thinks the same, just from the way he looks at Sam sometimes, smiles and ruffles his hair. Dean doesn't mind except that it brings too much attention from strangers, and that is a relief. Sam wouldn't want Dean to feel inferior, to resent him for it, but of course Dean never would.

They stay behind with the kid of another hunter once. He's tiny and he whines half the time, but the other half he wears this sunny gap-toothed grin that more than makes up for it. Sam cuts up his food in bite-sized pieces because Dean's busy, and the kid looks up at him like he just hung the moon. After lunch Sam starts teaching him a basic exorcism in Latin, patiently correcting the kid's lispy pronunciation. This must be what being a big brother feels like. Sam's chest swells with pride.

Most of the time Sam is happy to protect ordinary people from monsters, but sometimes he can't help a twinge of contempt. They're so slow, and stupid, and helpless. He tells himself it's not their fault.

There's a mark on Sam's arm. A scratch. A sigil. He's not sure which. It worries him, but Dad said he could handle it, and Dad is always right.

Alone, on a bed in a cheap motel on the way to Stanford. He is disowned now, unwanted. Sam's been planning to leave, had to, he's done nothing but butt heads with Dad for a while now. Still, he can't believe it. He thought Dad would soften up, hear him out. Not kick him out, just like that. Dean just standing by, not protesting, not defending Sam. He looked as confused and hurt as Sam felt, but also accusing, like this is all Sam's fault. Sam presses the heels of his hands against his closed eyes and tries to forget, tries to convince himself he doesn't care.

Sam's knuckles go white on the fence, splinters piercing his skin. Let them. Their father told Dean to kill him. There are no words for this betrayal, and Sam is angry, so angry he--

* * *

He bounces back into the waking world so abruptly he can't wrap his head around the change. The real world looks too bright, garishly colored next to the pastel haze of dreams.

Lucifer is standing beside a whitewashed brick fence on a deserted street, opposite the darkened window of a shop closed for the night. He's taking a long, noisy piss in a flower bed, just because he can.

Other brilliantly white buildings loom in the darkness like ghosts. The air smells of sea salt and rotting oranges. Sam's mind wanders, determinedly distracted, while Lucifer tucks in and zips up with dispassionate hands. At least he doesn't seem interested in Sam's body now that it's also his. Small mercies.

Sam stares at Lucifer's reflection in the shop window, or maybe Lucifer stares at his. It's hard to say anymore.

"Where are we?" Sam asks, and the words echo oddly, too loud.

Lucifer pushes off the wall, walks closer to the shop window. Anyone watching might think he just wants to check out the wares.

"Albufeira," he says, in a pitch much more suited to the situation, then clarifies after Sam's confused look, "Portugal. But that's not important."

"Let me guess, you'll be getting out of my body any day now as long as I act like a good boy." There's venom in Sam's voice, but not as much as he was expecting. There's something about the dreams that's hooked his attention and refuses to let go. Sam tells himself they were just random flashes of memories, but his mind keeps coming back to them like a cat pawing at a ball of twine, only making a bigger tangle.

"You've been a _very_ good boy." Lucifer stops an arm's length away from the glass. His eyes narrow with sudden, almost paranoid suspicion. "It's not like you at all."

Sam's not about to admit that it wasn't intentional, that he'd have gladly made all the trouble he could given half a chance. Silence stretches between them. Lucifer studies Sam's reflection like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. The mood is strangely subdued until Lucifer touches Sam's throat in the window. Sam's lips part in surprise before Lucifer pressed them into a thin line. He slides the pads of his fingers over the cool glass, leaving fingerprint smears on the pristine surface.

"No matter how comfortable this feels, it makes talking to you so frustrating," he complains, and it's only now that it dawns on Sam what's different. The pressure is almost gone, Sam's body fitting over the both of them like a glove. Saying that's worrying would be the understatement of the year.

They can't keep occupying the same body. It's just... wrong.

"How much longer?" It's Sam who breaks the silence, swallowing nervously. It feels like surrender, to even trust enough to think it worth asking, to not just take it for granted Lucifer is going to stay put.

"Not long," Lucifer answers, voice dropping to a whisper, softly reassuring. Sam lets it be; he's tired of calling Lucifer a liar, however true it may be.

In the distance, a single pair of careless footsteps is steadily coming their way. As soon as Sam becomes aware of the sound Lucifer pulls back, straightens up, like he only just noticed it too. This is stranger still, and Sam has no idea what could have distracted Lucifer to such an extent.

"Now if you'll excuse me," Lucifer says, all present in the moment once more. "I have to see a man about a horse."

The footsteps are about to round the corner when Sam's vision cuts off.

He dreams of nothing at all, and only surfaces long enough to bask in the vague feeling of a job well done emanating from Lucifer's direction.

* * *

Sam's blinking up at a sunny sky. He's standing on a low shore, a stretch of sandy ground dotted with patches of spiny beach grass and weathered rocks. Further away he can make out a ribbon of smooth beach neighboring a run-down boathouse. The only other signs of human activity are a faded red buoy swaying gently in the far distance, and a black jeep parked on a cliff some distance away, likely so that the owners could admire the view. Sam can't blame them. The sea is jewel-blue and sparkling, so flat it resembles a sheet of glass.

"This is where you get a new vessel?" he asks, dubious.

"If everything goes well."

"So you con another poor schmuck into helping you," Sam shakes his head, but even as he says it he knows he won't intervene. He'll add this new reason to feel guilty to the pile once this is over.

Lucifer sounds distinctly amused when he replies.

"Not just right now. Although I do appreciate how willing you are to compromise your morals when it's convenient, Sam."

"Bite me," Sam says, hackles rising at being lectured on morality by the present company.

"I thought you'd never ask," Lucifer answers, voice heavy with promise.

Lucifer is nestled in his head like he belongs there by now, snug beside Sam. It occurs to Sam that soon he might not even be able to tell if Lucifer is there, and the thought scares him worse than anything, worse than the sick terror of being locked in Hell, than the knowledge that Lucifer would soon be loose on Earth once more.

And maybe that says something about him, maybe that makes him a bad person, but he needs to get this thing out of him and get back to his brother, and anything else comes second. Dean must be climbing up the walls with worry by now. Hell, with Lucifer’s hints about Amara's interest in Dean Sam's much in the same place himself.

While Sam is having a not-crisis of conscience, Lucifer walks over to the boathouse, light on his feet on the sand even in Sam's heavy boots. A messenger bag Lucifer must have acquired during one of Sam's blackouts beats heavy against his hip with every step.

The steps of the boathouse creak under his weight, the door is dry and cracked, shattering easily at the faintest gesture. Lucifer steps over the fragments, weaves through rows of dusty paddle boats stacked on their sides like poker chips. There's a covered deck at the back, hanging over the water, and here Lucifer stops. He sets down the bag with some care, then sits down on planks that haven't been swept in years by anything but the wind, Sam's toes just shy of touching the water.

Sam is a little curious, a lot eager to get this over with, and Lucifer has never been one to dawdle.

"To be completely honest with you, I'm not sure this will work," he announces simply. "If it doesn't pan out, I'm going to need a body to return to."

And here it is, of course, the kicker. Even Lucifer's rare kept promises come with caveats.

"Sure thing," Sam tells him, breezily, and thinks _go to hell_. "You only have to ask."

In response Lucifer gives him a low, genial laugh, like Sam just did something right. "I knew I could count on you, Sammy."

The old nickname makes Sam's skin crawl, the way Lucifer says it, unfamiliar in Sam's own voice, lower lip popping on the m, lingering over the word like something dirty, intimate.

Lucifer lets Sam squirm for a minute before continuing.

"Speaking of things you can count on, I've always loved this sea. The Black Sea," Lucifer's hand makes a sweep over the water. Sam startles internally; he thought they were still in Portugal. "An apt name. This is where the Flood happened, which is why we're here, grasshopper. There is something buried in there that I need to see."

"A vessel-crafting manual?" Sam says, but beyond the sarcasm he's listening with full attention.

"Close. You'll see," Lucifer says, and leans forward so they can look straight down at the water. It's darker here in the shade of the boathouse, and emanating a faint odor of stagnation.

"About six hundred feet deep is the cut-off point. Beneath that there's no oxygen, no life, just masses of hydrogen sulfide dissolved in the water. Toxic, flammable and so packed in down there that a medium-sized asteroid in the right place would be enough to immolate everything within, say, two miles off shore."

He sits back, and beyond their little shadowy spot the sunlight is dancing on the water as cheerful as ever.

"Although nothing like that need happen. Right, Sam?"

Overwhelmed, feeling trapped, Sam can only nod.

There's a last whisper, this time inside Sam's head, _no peeking_ , then Lucifer uncoils from him and slips out into the sea. It takes only a moment, but it's a while before Sam dares open his eyes. He can't see a trace of Lucifer anywhere. Sam's alone for the first time in what has felt, for him, like weeks.

He doesn't know what to do. He runs his fingers through his hair, his face, over and over again. There's no doubt Lucifer would make good on his veiled threat if Sam makes a run for it and whatever he's looking for down there doesn't prove as useful as he hopes, but Sam knows better than to think Lucifer will make good on his promise to let Sam go once he secures another vessel. It's never that simple.

At the end Sam can't stand sitting in place, has to get up and pace. He nearly trips over Lucifer's bag, lying safely far from the edge of the deck. And maybe Sam can't take off and can't call Dean, but he sure as hell can rifle through Lucifer's luggage.

The bag contains two things: a metal block no bigger than a tablet, and a bottle of mineral water with a post-it note stuck to its cap. The writing on it says "Drink me". Sam's thirsty, but he sets it aside to be contrary, and picks up the block instead. There are no visible cracks in its surface, but it's too light to be solid. Sam turns it over in his hands, looking for a hidden switch. It's all in vain. Regretfully, he tucks it back into the bag.

Lucifer takes a long time.

In the end Sam sits back down. Eventually he caves in and opens the water too. He keeps his eyes trained on the red buoy, mind racing. Lucifer has been careful how much he reveals, and as a result Sam doesn't even have questions so much as vague suspicions. There might be something in Dean's supposed connection with the Darkness, but Sam's still hazy on the details. He has no idea what happened in the cage to make Lucifer suddenly turn up the seduction to eleven either. Because that's what happened, Sam recognizes it now. Something surprised Lucifer - something that made Hell's power flare up, and he got Sam out of the way, and then it was game time. Then there are the dreams that may or may not have any significance.

What Sam needs is Dean. They should be sitting down together in the bunker library, talking through all this stuff over cold beer. Sam won't feel he's truly out of Hell before Dean knows about it too. He searches the bag again, then the boathouse, but there's no working phone in either of them.

He's scrutinizing the horizon for a tell-tale glow, a sign that Lucifer’s flying back minus body, when Lucifer's head breaks the surface almost between Sam’s feet.

For a second he's not even sure it is Lucifer with all the wet hair slicked to his skull and over his eyes. But then Lucifer reaches out to push it back, and it's him all right. It's the old body, the back-up plan vessel, and maybe that's good, even if it's another mystery. Sam didn't consider what he'd do if Lucifer came out looking like his twin.

Sam stands, unfolding to his full height, while Lucifer swims languidly to the deck. He pulls himself up with such easy grace it almost feels seductive, and Sam realizes Lucifer is naked. He steps back on instinct.

 _Better not get caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea_ he thinks, and Lucifer throws him a slanted grin as if he can hear it.

"Chin up, Sam," he says. "We're back in business."

Never mind that Sam has stacks and stacks of reasons not to be glad of that, never mind that there's no "we". A sunbeam falls from a gap in the awning and sets Lucifer’s eyes aglitter so that he looks wild, capable of anything. It promises destruction and mayhem, but also other things, and for a moment Sam thinks he's about to find out what it's like to be kissed within an inch of his life against a musty support beam, what the boards taste like, how it feels to be fucked in the sea from which Lucifer crawled out like some ancient monster.

But then self-control wins over, making Lucifer all the scarier for it, and he turns away, throws over his shoulder.

"Come on, I'll give you a ride. We'll have a chat."

Up on the cliff the jeep is still waiting patiently, and with a sudden flash of insight Sam realizes two things: that he's got to hear this, and that he and Lucifer aren't parting ways anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twelve thousand words later the characters are finally out of hell and in separate bodies. I'm just so efficient, is what I am.
> 
> Next chapter should be up next weekend.


	4. An Invitation To A Beheading

The car eats up the miles, tires leaving no trace on the packed dirt road. Lucifer drives with precise, economic movements, hands on 10 and two, all textbook.

"For someone who hates humans you sure picked up how to act like one right quick," Sam observes.

"You're not the most intricate of creatures," Lucifer answers, ignoring the dig, smiling at Sam as if it's a joke they're sharing instead. Sam looks away.

There's a barcode sticker on the windshield - a rental then, complete with the smell of newly sanitized upholstery. Cartons of juice are stacked neatly by the backseat rest, sesame bars piled over the dashboard, and Sam doesn't want to think about what any of this means, so he doesn't.

Lucifer starts whistling, a familiar melody that makes Sam's eyes snap back to Lucifer. It takes him a few seconds to place it, and when he does he can't believe he didn't recognize it right away. It's Guns N'Roses' Patience. Sam can recall sunny afternoons spend with a map and a marker on the back seat, the notes rolling out with the worn tape while Dad drives and Dean munches on something on the passenger seat, turning around to bother Sam every now and again.

"You like it? I picked that up from your personal music collection. The one you keep inside your hat stand," Lucifer tells him. His eyes are drinking in Sam's pain like it's the last delicious drops at the bottom of the cup.

Sam turns to look through the window, fighting to project an impassive front in the face of Lucifer's violent excitement. He's unbound now, for better or worse - _don't kid yourself, Sam, better is wishful thinking_ \- and there's no use dwelling on should and could haves.

"What else did you find inside my head?"

"This and that. It's been an eventful few years. My favorite part has to be that time you tried to board up Hell and instead banished all angels from Heaven. Take a minute to think about this, Sam, let it reeeeeally sink in. This is what you do without even trying."

The words cause barely a prickle, dwarfed by Sam's current predicament, but Lucifer doesn't seem daunted. The sea is already gone from view, replaced by a monotonous landscape of low, rocky hills. They overtake two cars, a horse cart and a goat herd. Sam doesn't even know which country this is. Turkey, maybe. Somewhere so far from Sam's usual beat it might as well be on another planet. Who knows what monsters stalk this land. Not Sam. He suppresses a sigh and turns back to the devil he knows.

Lucifer too looks unfamiliar in the blue button-down and cotton slacks he conjured out of thin air. Sam's never seen him wear anything other than the green shirt and creased jeans, to the point that some part of him must have considered them part and parcel with the vessel. The short sleeves ride up as Lucifer grips the steering wheel, leaving the sleek muscles and pale, downy hair on his arms exposed.

Sam shouldn't be noticing any of this.

"Was that what got you angry, the angels being locked out of Heaven?" Sam asks, on a hunch.

There's no overt change, no dramatic reaction, but all the same Sam thinks there's something suddenly alert about Lucifer's good mood.

"Angry?"

"Something really bent you out of shape while you were possessing me," Sam probes. "I could feel it."

A beat during which Lucifer looks nothing but cheerfully disinterested. "Can't say I know what you're talking about."

"Everything else aside, you can't be happy about losing your wings," Sam continues. He's surprised Lucifer hasn't already exacted some kind of revenge because of that. Somewhere in his head there must be a running tab in Sam's name, possibly shared by Dean and Cas, to be paid in full one day.

He expects a tell, a show of anger, not to watch the corners of Lucifer's eyes crinkle with mirth in the rearview mirror.

"Now why would you think I don't have my wings, Sam? How do you think we got out of Hell, pony express? Carpooling?"

This gives Sam pause. Lucifer stares at him with mild curiosity, not even pretending he needs to watch the road to keep them on course.

"What about all the flying coach and driving around? Or how about because you claim to be an angel and _they_ all lost their wings."

"Weeeell, I'm not your standard issue angel," Lucifer points out, smacking his lips with self-satisfaction. His hand passes over empty air as if presenting a new ad catchphrase. "Limited edition of four, a classic model with all the extras."

Sam digests this, wondering if it's true, trying to fit the new piece within the puzzlework that is his knowledge of angels. Underneath that he's taken aback at the way Lucifer talks about himself like he's a thing, a product, no matter how jokingly.

Lucifer doesn't allow him much time for reflection. "Which leads me to the conversation you've been avoiding because you suspect I'm going to convince you to do something you think is a bad idea. You see, the reason we've been rattling around in tin cans is that I really don't want to draw undue attention right now."

"Attention from the Darkness? Why would she even know you're out?" Sam asks, something not adding up, Lucifer's aw, shucks expression making him tense up.

"About that. You know how your brother tends to overreact when you're in danger, striking deals with any old cosmic horror that slithers his way," Lucifer draws the words out, a cat that just got a lifetime supply of canaries and cream lording it over the other cats. "Let's just say that while you and I were having our extended conjugal visit, busy little Dean must have come to an understanding with Aunt Agatha. She was in the middle of kicking down the door by the time you let me in."

Sam doesn't want to get mad. It's a waste of energy at this point, to get mad. The rage still swallows him up like a black wave. He loses seconds, doesn't know how many. When his vision clears he's staring at the dashboard, forehead sticking against plastic, Lucifer's fingers buried in the hair at the back of his head like an anchor.

"Are you with me, Sam?"

Sam bats the arm away, Lucifer letting go easily, like he thinks he can touch Sam any time he likes. A sure thing, no rush.

The inside of the car is unnaturally quiet, the engine - dead. They aren't going anywhere. _The Darkness comes knocking, and if you're lucky she'll kill me first and you'll get to watch._ Lucifer told him that, Sam just didn't realize how literal it was. Although in the end that wouldn't have been much better, not if he and Dean got stuck with the Darkness instead.

It's only Dean now. _Much_ better.

"If it's any consolation, I doubt she asked for anything in return. Nothing your brother was unwilling to give. I imagine it's a relief for him, to have an excuse to allow her close," Lucifer says, the words, tone of voice, pitch, everything carefully calculated to be comforting. It is. When Lucifer continues, his voice is saturated with dry, cynical humor. "If I had to guess, I'd say they believe themselves to be in love, or soon will."

It takes a lot of effort to sit up, to stay upright. Sam remembers a trick Bobby told him, once. _Just imagine there's a steel support running along your spine_ , and Dean's voice, later, _a steel pole jammed up your ass might be more your speed, Sammy_. He asks the first question that comes to mind out of a long line of many.

"Why?"

The answer is slow to come and Sam has to look at Lucifer when he wants to do anything but. Not just because of the still simmering anger, or the frustration that he might not get a straight answer out of him. There's also the fact that Sam's not sure he wants to know. There's only so much bad news he can take.

Lucifer seems thoughtful now. He's choosing his words with care, less like he's transparently making up a lie, more like he's struggling to explain in a way Sam would understand, or even like Lucifer himself doesn't understand entirely. Perhaps he doesn't, the Darkness too alien even for him.

"She's the personification of a natural force," he says eventually. He leans towards Sam, gesturing animatedly. "Call her entropy or whatever. She's incapable of creating anything, no matter how much she wants to. At the same time she's fascinated by the order and creation she can't help but destroy. The self-destructiveness and longing for peace in Dean was what allowed her to get a foothold into this world, but now it's his humanity that draws her in. She probably wanted to be important to Dean, and we both know what's the only reason Dean finds women important without wanting to shiv them."

"So she, what, forced Dean to have feelings for her?" Sam asks. Great. Sam's self-destructive brother, a part of whom longs for peace in death, getting fuzzy feelings for the biggest monster they've ever needed to gank. He can't even blame that part on Lucifer manipulating him, he knows Dean goes through these periods when he's tired of the job, of responsibility, of life.

"Not consciously, but that's about it." Lucifer leans back in the seat, regarding Sam with interest. "But it goes both ways. She must have made herself fall for your brother too."

Another realization emerges from the fog in Sam's brain like an iceberg before a transatlantic liner.

"That's why you need me. Dean's worried about me, which means she's worried about Dean, so she's looking for me right now. For you," Sam murmurs, as much to himself as to Lucifer.

"Whoop-de-doo, you get a cookie," Lucifer raises his eyebrows significantly. "That's not all I want you for, of course. Given what I'm up against, I'd say an emergency vessel is a must for the well-dressed angel this season."

Suddenly, Sam is flooded with the irresistible impulse to tell Lucifer to fuck off. Or say yes and retract it right when Lucifer actually needs a back-up vessel. Next to him Lucifer laughs, low and approving.

"Of course I realize you might need some extra incentive," he says, a sly smile playing on his lips. He's slouched, fingers laced over his stomach, body language screaming harmlessness. "The kicker is, the Darkness doesn't consume souls. She stores them." 

Sam is interested now, trying not to betray it. He doubts he's successful. Lucifer continues in his sing-song, mocking voice, like telling a bedtime story to a child he dislikes.

"They float in there like chunks of half-digested burrito in a giant stomach, incorporeal but sentient, blind, deaf and trapped inside their own minds, screaming without sound... forever."

The smile on Lucifer's face stretches to a sales-pitch perfect brilliance.

"This is what Dean has to look forward to, alone for all time, just like he's always been terrified he'll end up. The Darkness would never let such a delicacy go, no matter how long she delays the pleasure. She would even see it as keeping Dean safe and cared for. Meanwhile, Dean would be going insane slowly, his mind turning on itself because there's no one else and no merciful ending to it all. You might be there too, the whole world might be there locked in their own private solitary cells, but it would make no difference to Dean." 

Of course it might be a lie. Of course. Except they both know Sam would rather open the cage and push his brother inside himself than let him go through this. Than subject the whole of humanity to this. He can't take that chance.

Lucifer is silent now, waiting.

"Are you with me, Sam?" The same question as minutes before, a different meaning.

Sam makes up his mind.

He'll play ball for now. And when it's all over and the dust is settled he'll make sure neither the Darkness nor Lucifer is standing upright. He's not sure how, but he will.

"It's so nice that we understand each other," Lucifer says, and turns the key in the ignition.

* * *

Sam expects Lucifer to drive through the night, but they stop at the first town they reach after dusk. Sam's out of the car as soon as it's parked, eager to stretch his legs and put more than a foot's distance between Lucifer and himself. Lucifer lags back, and Sam takes a turn to a side street off of the town's square, such as it is. He keeps count of the houses he passes - saffron, aquamarine, saffron again, lime, two off-white ones, all with deep-set windows with a double layer of bottle-thick glass. It's a town built for extreme temperatures, and now that the sun's set Sam can feel why. He's still in the clothes he went to Hell in, and they feel ancient by now, useless against the cold and repulsively familiar.

He reaches a restaurant, pub and cafe all rolled into one, with checkered red and white tablecloths and bright plastic chairs. Only one of the outside tables is occupied, crowded with a gaggle of old men who crane their necks and turn to watch Sam's progress unashamedly. All this doesn't matter, because there's a beat up phone by the door of the restaurant, and no matter what Sam needs to call his brother.

He makes a beeline for the phone, already taking out the wallet he can feel in his back pocket. He could maybe get some money exchanged inside. He stares at the thing for a couple of seconds, before some animal sense tells him to turn and he listens to it in time to see Lucifer approach with eerie silence. He reaches out, making Sam stiffen, bypassing him completely to pick up the receiver.

"Go ahead," Lucifer urges, feeds coins into the slot while Sam scrutinizes his face, trying to figure out what the catch is. Lucifer steps back once he's done, enough to let Sam breathe, not enough to give him privacy. Sam doesn't care. He starts punching in one of Dean's numbers, remembers that he's not in the US anymore, hangs up and starts again, his fingers slipping over the buttons with sweat. US country code, state code, phone number, and then the dial tone. Sam taps his foot a couple of times before he makes himself stop, too aware of Lucifer's presence at his elbow.

A metallic click makes him take a breath, words ready to rush out at the first sound of Dean's voice.

" _The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable._ "

Sam swears under his breath and tries another one. His fingers are shaking a little by now.

" _The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service._ "

This is too much of a coincidence. He looks back at Lucifer, who shrugs innocently. Sam closes his eyes and grits his teeth.

" _Dean Winchester cannot take your call at this time. Try again never._ "

There's a note of derision in the mechanical voice now. Sam tries again immediately.

There's only a high, thin giggle, then the dial tone cuts off.

When he turns around Lucifer is sucking on the side of his thumb nonchalantly.

"No luck, huh?"

Sam pushes past him, fuming.

* * *

They spend the night on the roof of an ancient-looking stone house, Lucifer simply opening the door and heading for the stairs in the dark. The owners are in, but no one wakes to catch them at it other than a friendly cat that rubs against Lucifer's legs on the landing.

The roof is carpeted, covered in wide, padded benches. Sam lies down on one, taking care not to leave enough space for Lucifer if he decides to be a nuisance. There are stars above, more than he remembers seeing in a while. He wonders what Dean might say were he here. _Nice digs, but bird shit must be a bitch to clean_ , probably. Lucifer lingers by the edge of the roof, elbows leaning against the wrought-iron railing, silhouetted by a street light.

Sam feels exhausted, but wide awake.

It must be late when Lucifer turns around, notices Sam watching. He wanders away from the ledge, sits on the roof with his back to Sam's bench.

"Is there something else we need to negotiate?" He asks.

"I want to talk to Dean."

"No."

"There isn't anything else I want from you."

Lucifer starts rising, and Sam's arm twitches, too close to reaching out to stop him. Lucifer pauses. The way his body is angled towards Sam in the low light is familiar, unsettlingly so.

"I'm not going to persuade you otherwise," Lucifer declares, and the tone of his voice leaves little doubt what that persuasion would entail. "I do need you to cooperate, Sam, and if you prefer we can start with a clean slate. Leave what happened in Hell there."

This startles a laugh out of Sam, a brittle, raspy thing that sounds like it's coming from a throat full of glass shards.

"You really think I'd agree that we're even?"

"I think you should count your blessings and be glad I don't have any designs on your body," Lucifer says, with a chilling, even-voiced practicality.

He pulls up to his feet with his customary ease in a skin he's made his own, and that too is familiar, even if the figure looming over Sam in his nightmares is distinctly unclothed. Lucifer's face stays in shadow as he rests too cool fingertips right above Sam's left eyebrow.

"You should get some rest," he says and Sam knows no more.

In the morning, Sam changes into the clothes Lucifer left for him with Lucifer half turned away, apparently engrossed in the spectacle of the cat toying with a beetle. The clothes are much like Lucifer's own, except green rather than blue. Sam feels like an idiot in them, but draws far fewer glances once they venture back to the street.

Just opposite the square corner where the car is parked they have to stop to let by a wedding party. Laughing people, gawking kids and a decked-out bride riding a white mule file past. The bride looks their way and Lucifer stabs his tongue against his cheek, miming giving a blowjob. The woman looks away, shocked, and some of her outraged relations start making their way towards Lucifer. He lets Sam drag him by the arm, but it's a close thing.

"Lighten up, Sam," he says back in the car, with a smile that would have been charming if Sam didn't know what he was capable of.

"Low profile mean anything to you?"

"Low profile means no zapping around the Earth because no other angels are doing that," Lucifer points out, eyebrows raised jauntily. "Jumped-up apes, on the other hand, die every day."

It dawns on Sam just how much work travelling with a bored Lucifer would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, I finally kicked this chapter into shape. Once again, thank you to everyone who let me know they've been waiting for the next part, it was great motivation.


	5. Water

They reach Istanbul later that day. Sam is unprepared for the city, but this is true for this whole thing. Every neighborhood looks like it could be in a different country, the cars, people, buildings changing like a kaleidoscope on the other side of the car window, slums after closed compounds shining with sterility, clusters of identical high-rise buildings that could have each been spat out from a different conveyor belt.

On the European side of the Bosphorus Lucifer jerks the jeep to a stop by a waterfront walkway, slings the near-empty messenger bag over his shoulder, says "this is us" and climbs out before Sam even begins shedding the lethargy brought on by the hours-long crawl in traffic. Outside he squints at the bright sun, lets the sea breeze fan his hair. Lucifer reaches out and fixes a strand blown out of place, viper-quick so Sam doesn't have time to do more than blink. Then he's off, looking like he knows where he's going.

Up a maze of slanted narrow streets they go, Lucifer's brisk pace discouraging curiosity. Not that Sam's in the mood to sightsee. Once upon a time he took it for granted he'd travel, with Jessica after they were married, during Sam's no doubt scant vacation time. They would have baked on a beach in Mexico, or gone somewhere really cliched like London or Paris, neither of them truly adventurous. Now here he is, trailing Lucifer who glides through the afternoon street rush like a shark among minnows. He wonders what Jess would think of him now, and realizes with resigned despondence that he has no idea.

At the gap between a restaurant and a carpet shop Lucifer takes a turn down a short, flowerbed lined passage leading to what a travel agency brochure would call a boutique hotel. An emerald green building with moss roses growing in planters under each window and curving brass bars caging the window panes. It's a cynically twee tourist trap, the kind of place that should never in a million years have something as ancient as Lucifer knocking on its door, but then again Lucifer's never seemed to care much about image. He's past the gleaming wooden doors after a single perfunctory glance at the facade, while Sam dithers at the bottom of the steps.

He has no idea what he's doing, not certain of anything other than that he's overdue a freak-out and it looks like now's the time. Lucifer is unmanageable and untrustworthy and Sam's hitched his wagon to his cart. The Darkness is growing stronger with every passing second and doing heaven knows what to Dean. Lucifer's last venture wasn't exactly a resounding success, so who knows if he isn't overestimating his own abilities again. Sam can't imagine how Lucifer's going to pull this off, how _Sam_ 's going to pull off doing away with Lucifer afterwards, and what shape Dean would be in once this is over. The thought makes him realize he's alone and he should really cut short the defeatist pity fest and try calling Dean without Lucifer breathing down his neck.

Sam squares his shoulders, about to do just that, when the hotel doors fly open and Lucifer saunters out.

"There you are, slowpoke," he exclaims, throws Sam a key. Sam catches it reflexively, eyebrows rising in question. "Don't wander off while I'm gone, or I'll have to come get you. Later."

Later. Like nothing more needs to be said.

"What about you?"

The only answer he gets is a wave over Lucifer's shoulder before he steps out into the street and disappears. Sam huffs, shaking his head, jiggling the keys thoughtfully. He'd expected Lucifer to stick to him like glue, keep him on a short leash, and here the bastard just up and skips off. Sam looks up to the sky, sighing, and figures he might as well use the room phone to try and call Dean. Although he doubts he'd have better luck this time, considering how unconcerned Lucifer was about leaving him alone.

He takes the steps two at a time and pulls the heavy door open. Inside, the place manages to straddle a fine line between opulence and kitsch, drowning in silk damask and brass decoration. There's even a bird cage hanging over the reception station, the staccato bursts of song from the single occupant disturbing the silence in the lobby.

Sam pauses just inside, noting the less than professional stare of the receptionist before she catches herself and looks away. Sam walks over to her, schooling his features into a polite smile.

"Excuse me," he says. "My friend just checked us in, and he's... something of a practical joker. Could you tell me what names he gave you, just in case he decided it would be funny to use fake ones?"

The woman gives him an unreadable look, then says, without checking, "Mr. Nick Scratch and Mr. Samuel Mathers. He provided identification, of course."

"Of course," echoes Sam. "Where's room-" he examines the key tag "fourteen again?"

"You can access your suite from the garden. This way," the receptionist points out, still a little off.

"Thanks." 

Sam heads towards the back of the lobby, past the elevator, happy to leave the stuffy atmosphere behind. Nick Scratch and Samuel Mathers. The old Wild West nickname for the Devil and one of the founders of the magical order of the Golden Dawn. Hardly subtle, but Lucifer wouldn't be himself if he didn't display his arrogance in some way.

The garden turns out to be a walled-off patio lined with greenery worthy of a magazine spread. Sam feels increasingly like he just stepped into the twilight zone. He hurries towards one of the three sets of frosted-glass French windows and jams the key into the lock.

The suite is nothing unexpected down to the single king-size bed, which might account for the dead-eyed stare he just escaped. Doesn't matter, Sam doesn't care about anything but the phone. He makes a beeline for it, throws the key on the night stand while picking up the receiver with his other hand.

This time there isn't so much as a word, just the tinny wet gurgle of someone drowning in his own blood on the other end. Sam's more disappointed than surprised. He lets his body fall back onto the mattress with a bounce.

He's alone, finally, free to unwind from the constant state of red alert that is a must around Lucifer. Angel-mojo induced unconsciousness has nothing on real sleep, no surprise that he feels dead-tired. There's nothing to do anyway. He prays to Castiel, just to check, and is answered only with silence. Sam folds his knees one at a time to pull his shoes off without getting up, then falls asleep just like this, crosswise on the bed with his feet on the floor.

When he wakes he can sense it's late, very late, and that he's alone. Sleep clumsy, he rolls out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. He splashes water on his face and drinks straight from the tap like a dog, shakes off the water from his bangs afterwards. The tiles are a weird, rusty red, like dried blood. The full-length mirror opposite the one over the sink reflects an endless multitude of Sams, all sunken-eyed and haggard. He wanders away from them, from the bedroom to the sitting room. There's still nothing to do. He would have kept going, out into the patio, further maybe, but he spots the money on the table.

Sam walks over to it slowly. Neat piles of cash, and a note Sam snatches from the cherrywood surface. _Pocket money_ , it says. So Lucifer's been in and left again, and Sam didn't wake. A part of him wishes he had, wishes that he wasn't able to sleep with Lucifer near. And now Lucifer is out there again doing God knows what while Sam is out of the loop. Lucifer's freezing him out, and Sam never anticipated that.

He picks up a wad of cash from each pile. Euro and, he assumes whatever the currency is in Turkey. Lira. He stuffs the money in his pockets, collects his shoes and walks out. There's a different receptionist on night shift, and he doesn't even raise his head when Sam crosses the lobby. He spots a taxi two blocks away, and gives as destination the nearest airport. Let Lucifer come stop him if he wants to keep him here.

He doesn't pay attention what turns the driver takes, but all too soon the car stops. In front of the hotel Sam started at. The driver swears this is where Sam said he wanted to go, the hotel Kafes. Sam could have sworn he didn't even know the place's name. He climbs out of the taxi and walks. He follows the slope of the streets down, down to the water. The sea is much different during the nighttime. No glare of sun off the surface, rows of bobbing boats tied to posts. The city is well-lit and far from deserted, but Sam feels alone. Dean is out of his reach. Even Lucifer's abandoned him. Set aside in case he's needed again, which is by no means a certain thing, Sam feels useless. He can even tell it's making him wrong in the head, but he's helpless to stop it.

He stands by the water until the sky starts lightening up and the first anglers approach with folding chairs and empty buckets for the catch. Then he trudges back up the hill. Somehow he manages to find his way to the hotel again. Nobody looks at him on the way, not the stray dogs, the sleeping homeless men who get Lucifer’s money for a good morning present, the two laughing teenagers with guitars sitting on the hood of a car and failing to hit any note on Hey, Jude. Sam is a ghost.

It's morning by the time Sam goes back to the Kafes. The bird in the lobby is trilling again, the sound louder than Sam's hushed footfalls. Out into the garden tiny tables have been set up for breakfast, still empty but for the one in front of Sam's suite where Lucifer sits, perusing a newspaper.

"Right on time, Sam," Lucifer says without looking up, gesturing to the second chair.

Sam walks over, lowers himself to the seat, picks up a fork. He clears the table by himself, shovels some steaming, egg and vegetable dish into his mouth while Lucifer devours the society pages.

"Apparently Chichek Chetinoglu - that's a very popular actress at the moment, in case you're not up on your Turkish celebrities - has just given a teacup piglet to her niece. Seems the kid's favorite cartoon features a flying pig. How long until Babe gets tossed out a window, do you think?"

The fork hits the edge of the plate with a clatter.

"Are you ever going to tell me what your plan is?"

Lucifer folds up his paper calmly.

"So you can find a way to use it against me? Let me think about it." He taps his fingers to his lips, then grins, showing Sam teeth. "No."

Sam gives a terse, automatic nod at the confirmation of his own suspicions. "What do you want to reconsider?"

"You have nothing I want that much."

Sam's only ever had one thing to bargain with, one thing substantial.

"I can still say no to you whenever I want to, and this time you won't be able to trick me," he warns, invades Lucifer's space for once, gets in his face. Lucifer gets that look he used to have sometimes in the cage, like a man who can't believe a cockroach just tried to question him and isn't sure whether to laugh at the absurdity of it or squash it.

There's a clatter from one of the other suites, then an elderly couple walks out for breakfast, and by unspoken agreement Sam and Lucifer take their business inside.

They're barely in when Lucifer grabs Sam by the neck, tight enough to cut off air from the get go.

"I'm continually impressed by how doggedly you try to take advantage of me, even after I've been the _soul_ of generosity to you. You've got enough brass for a marching band, Sammy, I'll give you that." Lucifer holds him higher until only the balls of Sam's feet touch the ground. "Did you think you could keep dangling your consent in front of me and I'd just bite, every time?"

Sam strikes out blindly, training kicking in as soon as dark spots start licking at the edges of his vision. The hit to Lucifer's face is angled to shatter a human's nose and hammer the pieces into the sinuses, but it does nothing to Lucifer. The pressure on Sam's windpipe eases a little all the same, as if Lucifer's remembered the extent of his own strength, that he doesn't want to break Sam irreparably just yet. He lowers Sam to the ground, and shifts his grip to the side of Sam's neck. Sam rattles in a breath, then another, looking down at Lucifer. For once his loathing matches exactly the feelings reflected on Lucifer’s face.

"This is how it's going to be from now on," Lucifer informs him. "I will answer any questions you ask, within reason, and I will keep schlepping you along. In fact I'll take such good care of you, you won't even take a chill while you're with me. And _you_ 'll play along, and you'll even give me a little bonus for the inconvenience."

"Go fuck yourself," Sam hisses out, trying to pry Lucifer’s hand off of him. Lucifer's thumb digs viciously into the soft flesh underneath his jaw and Sam nearly bites his tongue at the shock of pain, body faltering even when his mind has been waiting for this.

"Ah, but that's what I got you for, remember?" He reels Sam in until their foreheads are almost knocking together. Up close, Lucifer's eyes are two chips of ice, flatter than Sam's ever seen them. "Here's a juicy piece of info for you, Sam. There's a ritual that will ensure I have permanent access to your body. I can't perform it right now, but when the time comes you'll agree to it. Otherwise I'll cut off every limb you have right now and leave you in storage in some hospital where the highlight of your day will be some fat, hairy nurse changing your catheter. How does that sound?"

The tinfoil taste of fear spreads over the back of Sam's throat, and that only makes him angrier. Lucifer's grip tightens impatiently.

"Fine," Sam bites out, and means "I'm going to end you some day".

Lucifer's eyes flash, but he must find the answer satisfying enough because he doesn't demand anything else. He lets go of Sam only to advance on him, nostrils flaring once, betraying the depth of his rage. Sam takes a step back, then another and another, backing beyond the threshold of the bedroom, further under the fluorescent glare of the bathroom, herded like pray.

* * *

Sam's treacherous mind catalogues every action when he would like nothing more than to not notice, or failing that, to forget. One by one, Lucifer thumbs undone the buttons on Sam's shirt. The blunt line of his thumbnail grazes Sam's stomach through the widening gap. Sam flinches, Lucifer doesn't react. His fingers curl over the sharp wings of Sam's hipbones before tugging at his belt. Things happen, one after the other, like a string of beads. Sam has no more choice here than he did in Hell.

"This is all your fault," Lucifer whispers against his lips, every word a dry caress. "I tried to put a brake on this, but you- You just don't learn, do you?"

There's no trace of cold in his touch, nothing to suggest he's out of control. He undresses Sam with an efficient economy of movement, kneels to take his shoes off, just like that. As if kneeling in front of a human is nothing, as if refusing to do this wasn't what got him kicked out of Heaven in the first place. Lucifer's face is the grim blank of a man performing a chore. He reaches behind Sam to turn on the shower, switching their places so the first blast of freezing water hits his back instead of Sam's. Even knowing what's in store for him if he resists, Sam tries to pull away, can't help it. Lucifer's arms lock around him, under his arms and around his back.

The spray plasters Lucifer's hair to his head, making his ears stick out in a way that should be funny. Instead it underscores how alien he is, an ancient being peering out of a cardboard cutout's spyhole eyes. Sam shudders, and one of Lucifer's hands leaves his back to tangle in his hair, to draw him down for a kiss. The tip of his tongue tests the seam of Sam's mouth, doesn't press when Sam's lips clamp together involuntarily. Instead Lucifer lowers his head, laps at the hollow of Sam's throat, rubs his stubble over the sore skin of Sam's throat where Lucifer choked him.

The water's warmed up by now, and Lucifer shifts them until the flow is hitting Sam's shoulder. Sam squeezes his eyes shut - so bouncing droplets don't get in his eye, of course, no other reason is allowed, and when Lucifer tries to kiss him again, he opens up. They've done this before countless times, in the cage. But this is not the cage, it's reality, where Sam took refuge in the knowledge that whatever Lucifer did to him was separate from his real life, locked away out of sight along with Lucifer himself, and one day hopefully out of mind. Now Lucifer's invading that last territory, leaving behind a trail of new memories to commemorate his conquest.

Sam's balanced on the edge of panic, held back in a hundred different ways. There's the water, making him feel warm and safe and somehow shielded despite himself, not utterly naked as he knows he is. Lucifer’s fingertips stroke Sam's throat, Lucifer's tongue teases along his, slowly, letting Sam absorb the sensations. Resentment and shame flit through Sam's mind at being managed so thoroughly, but they too aren't allowed his full attention. The important thing now is to survive. Sam can hate himself afterwards.

He lets Lucifer wash his hair, lather his body with sure hands. The water courses down over them, washes between their legs, runs in rivulets along the sharp divides between Lucifer’s back muscles while Lucifer sucks on the corner of Sam's jaw, gathers in the crook of Sam's elbow when Sam holds onto the back of Lucifer's shoulder for dear life.

Sex in the shower always seemed too much effort to be worth it, to Sam. Hard tiles, a dozen things to juggle so the girl didn't feel uncomfortable, and she always ended up getting too dry just when Sam was getting into it. It never seemed to go as smoothly as Lucifer makes it now, and isn't that a riot. He backs Sam up against the wall, cradles Sam's leg over his arm as he fingers him. It's so immediate, all of it, the hungry burn, the sizzle of pain across Sam's nerves. The three fingers jammed up inside Sam, complimentary massage oil easing the way and Lucifer holding Sam up against the wall like Sam weighs nothing. Lucifer's knuckles snug against Sam's hole as he twists his fingers.

Lucifer's quiet, has been since his last accusation, just about as long as Sam's been avoiding looking him in the eye. He's not showing off now, not rubbing it in, the way Sam's body sings for this.

It's almost a relief when Lucifer pulls his fingers out and lines up. Sam bears it, bottom lip slack when he wants to bite through it, breathing ragged as Lucifer's cockhead breaches him. He feels riven open, as if every previous time they did this was just an echo of the real thing, as if they've only ever been fucking through rubber suits and never realized it.

Lucifer can't get all the way in like this and doesn't seem to want to. He glides in easily, too much oil making the slide smoother than Sam would prefer. It's only deep enough for the tip of Lucifer’s curving cock to graze over Sam's prostate on the instroke, then drag past it again while Lucifer pulls out. It's too much direct pressure, not the way Sam likes it. He's been rock hard for a while but now his erection wilts a little while his ass feels teased and left unsatisfied. Slow and controlled, Lucifer keeps fucking him, varying the long strokes with up-and-down pivots of his hips to keep Sam from getting too used to it.

Sam reaches for his own cock, desperate to do something, to relieve the pressure somehow, and Lucifer pins his arm to the tiles, rhythm never once faltering. Sam tenses up, and finally starts reciprocating, trying to rock into Lucifer’s thrusts, to get him deeper. Lucifer's grip tightens on his thigh, still maintaining the pace, and Sam moans in shameless disappointment.

When he looks at Lucifer now it's less an accident, more lack of caution brought on by need. Once he does, he can't look away. There's a muscle jumping in Lucifer's cheek and Sam can't tell if it's disgust, concentration or the effort of holding back. Lucifer sets his jaw like he hates being watched, picks up speed and then suddenly slams deep as he can go in this position. Sam comes, half-hard cock oozing weakly while his ass clamps down on Lucifer, still needy.

Lucifer wrenches his cock free too soon, while Sam is still coming. Sam moans, frustrated, another thing to regret later. For a moment he thinks this is it, that Lucifer won't come this time like he sometimes did in Hell to show he could undo Sam and stay unaffected himself. But Lucifer only turns Sam around, bends him over so the water comes down on his back and shoves in.

Wet now, the tiles look more like blood. Fresh, dark, dirty venous blood. The room is an open wound, Lucifer and Sam - the two writhing worms inside it.

Sam lowers his eyelids until there's only a red line of light filtering through. He tries to count breaths but keeps losing his place.

* * *

Afterwards, Lucifer leaves Sam alone. Sam cleans up, not looking at the milky residue washing away into the mouth of the drain, helped along by Sam's own fingers. The muscles in his thighs and upper arms feel tight even under the never-ending supply of hot water. No healing then, not this time, or maybe not out of Hell.

The bedroom is empty, the door to the sitting room wide open. Sam closes it, and imagines he can hear laughter on the other side. For a split second everything goes white, his vision, his thoughts, a glitch that seems fatal. He can't do this, he's really, physically, broken. But then the white fog melts away and it's just Sam there, with his fists pressed both sides of the door, with his labored breathing and his wet hair slowly curling dry against the towel wrapped around his shoulders.

The worst part is how quiet his mind is, clear of the deluge of words that clamored to pour out of him last night. He's relieved now, assured that he won't be left on the sidelines.

He checks the dresser drawers for underwear - there is, the wardrobe for clothes - there are. He dresses like putting on armor, all the while aware these are clothes Lucifer provided for him.

Lucifer is sitting on the loveseat, feet crossed on top of the money spilling over the coffee table. He lowers them when he sees Sam, pats the empty cushion next to him invitingly. Sam sits on one of the armchairs instead. Lucifer visibly bites down on an exasperated smile, like Sam just did something predictable and endearing, but as always there's a hint of... pretense, of contempt, or the illusion of one, that isn't too hard to tease out. Sam wonders exhaustedly if Lucifer himself knows what’s the real him and what's a smoke screen.

"How are we going to kill the Darkness?" Sam asks. The we is deliberate, to see if Lucifer will correct him.

"We aren't," Lucifer says, and before Sam can protest Lucifer's face takes on that bulldog look, the look he'd worn when he'd talked about Michael once upon a time. "We're going to do to her what you and your brother did to Death."

"We killed Death," Sam insists. 

"And here's where you are wrong, Sam. Death is still around. The only difference is that it doesn't have a personality now."

"That's just semantics."

"No, it's what makes our task possible," Lucifer says, stressing the our like Sam had. "The multitude of universes my father created will keep degrading until they reach a state of thermodynamic equilibrium, and not even power equal to God's could change that. But that's not why the Darkness is such a threat now. She feels betrayed, she wants revenge, she thirsts for power. Get rid of her feelings and memories and there's no problem."

With sudden elation, Sam starts wondering if this might just work. 

"I assume you already have a way to do that."

"The souvenir we picked up in Portugal is a melted fragment of an angel egg. All we need to do is to pick up enough of them to glue a whole egg together, figure out how to reverse the holy word for creating the consciousness of an angel, then lure the Darkness inside one of these babies to reboot her, and Bob's your uncle. Well, Bobby, but you get the general idea."

Even if he doesn't know nearly enough to point out the holes in this plan Sam's sure there are many. He must look really skeptical, because Lucifer raises his palms, placating.

"There are a couple of difficulties to iron out, I admit," he says, with a what-can-you-do shrug. "Few angels were hatched after Earth was constructed, so you can imagine there aren’t a whole lot of broken eggs lying around. I'm also not 100% sure what will happen if we stuff an ancient primordial entity of immeasurable power into a krazy-glued angel egg. It might explode. The planet might crack in two. The galaxy might collapse into a giant black hole. Which is why I'd rather not do this on Earth."

Sam connects the dots.

"You want to do it in Hell?"

Lucifer winces. "That would be like blowing up the basement and hoping the house still stands afterwards. No, something less open to Earth, with lots of empty space would do better."

He's on his feet catching Sam by the shoulders when he tries to shoot out of his seat.

"I'm not letting you blow up Heaven," Sam yells, and Lucifer honest to God guffaws in his face.

"Now there's an idea, but I'm not- wait, Sam. I'm not going to do that," Lucifer says, still too amused for Sam's comfort. He looks so human now, thawed.

"How do I know that?" Sam demands, trying to hold onto the accusing edge.

Lucifer rolls his eyes. "Because Michael's in on it too, and he'd never let me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not feeling the show at all lately, but I'm trying to focus on positive things, like all the canon we got before the Lucifer Dog Show. That wasn't very positive, was it?
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked this, and that it made sense. There's a long way to go yet.


End file.
